


Wood and Clean Bone

by CracklPop



Series: Stetopher Week 2019 [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Etymology, Ghosts, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Multi, Nemeton, Not Canon Compliant, Peter and Chris are Spirits and it's Hallowe'en, Samhain, Stetopher Week 2019, bad magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:50:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CracklPop/pseuds/CracklPop
Summary: Stiles is kidnapped by a power-hungry veterinarian one Hallowe’en and finds out that not only is magic real, he’s a natural source of it. Luckily, two helpful spirits come to the rescue. For the Stetopher Week 2019 prompt “Bonfire.”





	Wood and Clean Bone

The veterinarian was going to kill him. Or Stiles was having a nightmare. Given the choice, he’d definitely prefer the latter. But the too-real bite of rope at his wrists and the panicky thump of his heart made Stiles reluctantly admit the former was more likely. 

“Fire is a key part of druid ceremonies, Stiles.” Alan Deaton’s voice was even and measured, the same as it was when he explained to Scott how to splint a cat’s leg or administer a vaccine. That lack of emotion terrified Stiles almost as badly as the knife at his throat. 

Stiles tried to swallow as shallowly as he could. His natural defense in high-stress or dangerous situations was to try to talk his way out. But Deaton had responded with quiet violence to Stiles’ earlier attempts to talk, back when Stiles had realized Scott wasn’t working late after all; that it hadn’t been Scott who had asked him to the vet’s office after dark. Stiles had a livid bruise on his jaw and two swollen, misaligned fingers to show for his verbal communication efforts. 

“The first ring is a fire of clean wood,” Deaton continued, his didactic tone a ludicrous contrast to Stiles’ horror movie-worthy situation: beaten up, kidnapped, and trapped in the woods. Stiles eyed the circle of fire that surrounded the forest clearing they were in, seeing ordinary-looking logs of wood beneath the eerily uniform flames. 

“Now, the second ring….” Deaton paused to inflict a series of evenly spaced cuts down the side of Stiles’ neck, leaving thin, hot trails of blood in the wake of each slice. Stiles, his arms bound behind his back, forced himself to remain still. He wasn’t sure how much worse the situation could get—aside from his death—but doing anything that resulted in deeper slashes didn’t seem like a great idea. 

“The second ring is where you come in,” Deaton said, eyes glinting with a sudden flash of greed. “A fire of clean bone. Did you know that the word _bonfire_ comes from bone-fyre? Probably not. You seem bright enough, I suppose, but not particularly focused.” He paused to make a pattern of pricks and cuts on each of Stiles’ upper arms then watched as the blood slowly dripped into the rough surface of the massive tree stump Stiles had been placed on. 

Stiles suppressed a shudder as he saw the tree absorb the dark red liquid without a stain. It just…disappeared once it hit the ringed surface. 

“The druids used woode-fyres and bone-fyres in many of their rituals, but fire was the most important at Samhain. I never thought I’d be able to enact this particular spell.” Deaton for the first time sounded satisfied rather than neutral and the change was not comforting in the least to Stiles. The knife was lower on his body now, slicing into the tender skin by his ribs. A distant part of Stiles was thankful Deaton had only taken away his shirt. Not that wearing pants had saved him from being slowly carved up so far. 

“I’d never met a spark in person before you,” Deaton was saying. Stiles blinked and tried to concentrate on the vet’s mad rambling. The smells of smoke and mistletoe were overlaid with the coppery tang of blood and Stiles felt light-headed and nauseated, his torso painted in wet, crimson smears and runnels. 

“Imagine my delight when my dull, good-hearted assistant brought his friend by and it was _you_,” Deaton murmured over his latest collection of thin wounds. Stiles buried a pained whimper in his throat but lost the battle with tears. 

“Excellent,” Deaton said, eyes following the path of salt water as it mingled with Stiles’ blood and was consumed by the tree. “The tears and blood of a spark. When the tree devours your flesh and leaves only your clean bones, they will fuel the second ring, you see. A bone-fyre from a spark…well, Stiles, it’s an opportunity that comes along perhaps once in two generations. And for it to be in the same place as a nemeton….” Deaton’s sigh was obscene. 

Stiles, his fingers slick with blood and sweat, had worked one knot loose but his arms were at such an awkward angle, he wasn’t sure he could reach any more knots before…whatever it was Deaton had planned. 

He hadn’t been able to understand half of what Scott’s boss was going on about, but Deaton seemed to think that killing Stiles in some sort of bizarre religious ceremony was going to accomplish something besides a guaranteed life sentence in prison. 

Deaton resumed his villain monologue about druids and sacred flames and magic sparks that needed harvesting, but Stiles turned his attention to working free of the ropes on his arms while keeping his body as rigid as possible. And not giving in to frantic sobbing from the general pain and terror of the entire night. 

When Stiles first caught sight of the cold, blue light flickering at the edge of his vision, he assumed it was a fear-induced hallucination and ignored it. When the light grew more intense, however, Stiles shifted his head slightly and saw two human-shaped figures outlined in the glistering brightness. 

Deaton, distracted by the way the tree was drinking Stiles’ lifeblood, didn’t notice the light show right away. The blue-hued glow faded, leaving behind two men who appeared entirely corporeal. Stiles had a second of hysterical amusement when he realized the only phrase he could think of to describe their appearance was _alarmingly dedicated cosplayers_. There were cloaks, leather trousers, and tunics involved. And a lot of blades; one of them wore a sword strapped to his back. Stiles’ observations were cut short when the taller of the two men spoke. 

“What transpires in this sacred grove?” The man’s voice was deep and authoritative and Deaton at last became aware of the new arrivals. His face twisted in anger and he turned from the bloodletting to focus on the intruders. 

Stiles seized Deaton’s moment of inattention and writhed around, furiously trying to work his way off the tree’s surface. He wasn’t sure how he would get past the flames, but a few burns seemed like an acceptable exchange for continued existence. 

“I am a druid,” Deaton informed the two visitors. “And you are not welcome in the land of the living.”

The tall specter—although even while distracted, Stiles saw their forms weren’t really _ghostly_—pinned the veterinarian with an arctic gaze. 

“It is the night when the veil between worlds is thinned and we who are gone before can walk freely,” the man intoned, voice as chilly as his pale-blue eyes. 

“Elsewhere, yes,” Deaton admitted. “But within this circle of woode-fyre, you are banned.”

“And yet, here we stand,” the other seemingly tangible spirit stated, the beginnings of a smirk on his face. 

Deaton put his right hand on the tree stump and the left on one of Stiles’ numerous bleeding wounds. Stiles jerked, feeling like Deaton had closed a circuit. One where Stiles featured as the battery, apparently, because there was a hollow, dizzying _wrench_ and then Deaton’s eyes blazed gold and Stiles gasped, on the verge of blacking out. 

“This ritual cannot continue,” the tall, lean figure said firmly. 

Stiles slumped over, his body curled on top of the tree stump in a posture of agony. Despite his pain-hazed vision, Stiles could clearly make out the sudden movements of the two spirits as they trapped Deaton between them. Deaton pressed harder on Stiles’ chest, forcing the sluggishly bleeding slash to yield more. 

_I’m going to die_, Stiles thought, and the realization sent a wave of anger through him. He managed to twist away from Deaton’s grasping fingers, if only for a second. Deaton’s eyes lost their heated, gold glow and before he could recapture Stiles, the two other men had immobilized him. 

“Should we bring him back with us?” the taller specter asked. Stiles saw that the places he gripped Deaton were turning an unhealthy, grey sort of shade. 

“Hm,” his companion mused, glancing around at the base of the tree. “I’ve a better idea, Kristoffer. A solution that combines the divine judgment of Odin with the clever trickery of Loki.” 

“Apparently _you_ are providing the hubris of Thor,” the other man muttered, but his expression was fond. 

“A chaos demon buzzes at the roots of this nemeton; can you sense it?”

“You’ve always had the keener ear, my _Teufel Wolf_,” his partner, apparently Kristoffer, said. 

Stiles, still holding onto consciousness, let loose a faint laugh. Could it get any weirder? He’d been tortured by a harmless-looking veterinarian and rescued by ghosts named Kristoffer and Devil Wolf. Who apparently had a thing for Norse deities. 

“My name is Peter, little witch,” the Teufel Wolf said, addressing Stiles for the first time. 

“Um,” was Stiles’ reply. It seemed the evening’s events had rendered his brain-mouth filter even less effective than usual, if he’d said all that out loud. 

“You will release me,” Alan Deaton interjected, and Stiles could hear the panic that underlay his effort at a calm, level tone. “I name you Kristoffer and Peter and I command you to release me.” 

“Druids are quite ignorant in this time if you expected that to succeed,” said Peter. “True names are for the Erlkönig’s followers, not those who ride with Woden’s Hunt.” 

“And we would not reveal our names so carelessly,” Kristoffer added, looking affronted at the possibility. “Certainly not to a darach.” 

“I’m no darach!” Deaton sputtered before tipping his head toward Stiles with a dark look. “This…creature is a spark, a magnet for wickedness. If I didn’t claim his power, someone with evil intent would have. Or he could have turned into an even greater danger if left to his own devices.”

Stiles groaned. 

“Stop talking,” he snapped weakly, glaring up at Deaton. “The only inarguably evil person in this whole…magical forest place…is you. I mean, what the fuck, man? You broke my fingers and punched me and cut the shit out of my arms and started to _feed me to a tree_…I don’t even know how to describe the crazy magic energy stuff you stole.” 

“Not a particularly coherent summary, but an adequate one,” Peter said, nodding at Kristoffer. 

As Stiles watched, Peter knelt by the tree—he’d called it a _nemeton_, Stiles remembered—and placed his hand palm-down at the point where the tree’s enormous roots met the earth. The ground shook slightly, then cracked open to disgorge a plain, glass jar. Stiles blinked at the winged insect contained inside. 

“Ah, I see, my friend,” Peter murmured, ear tipped toward the glass. “You must act as you see fit. But if you will lend me your skill—yes, thank you.” Peter paused, presumably listening to the imprisoned fly. “I would see it as the greatest favor—indeed, yes.” 

Peter carefully unscrewed the jar and Stiles felt a pop behind his ears, releasing a tension he hadn’t been cognizant of. Stiles mustered the strength to rise onto his elbows, curious and strangely unafraid. 

Alan Deaton, however, appeared to feel nothing but fright. 

“You can’t do this!” he screamed, pushing wildly at Kristoffer. “I am a _druid_, I keep the _balance_. This isn’t justified—this isn’t right!” 

“I find your rigid interpretation of the Dagda’s teachings tiresome,” Peter sighed. He removed the top to the jar and the formerly trapped insect flew from its prison, expanding into a shape of darkness and smoke that Stiles found difficult to look at. A hissing noise emanated from the center of the ink-black form, gradually resolving itself into words Stiles could understand. 

“I seek vengeance,” the demon was saying. Its loosely defined edges firmed up until Stiles saw a great fox take shape, nine bushy tails moving in all directions. The fox’s eyes, dark as onyx, were fixed with an unnerving hunger on Stiles. 

“And in exchange for your freedom?” Peter was polite, but his eyebrows were raised. 

The fox huffed and a plume of smoke drifted from its mouth. 

“Very well, wolf,” it acquiesced. The fox-creature stalked over to Alan Deaton, who was quivering with fear and fury but unable to break Kristoffer’s unnaturally strong hold. “You shall inhabit my trap for the days that fill one year, druid. If the hunter and the wolf believe you worthy of release at the next Samhain, so be it.” 

“And…if not?” Deaton asked, shrinking back from the tendrils of darkness trailing the fox. 

“Then you will wait for the next Samhain past that. As many years as it takes for you to repent,” the fox informed him, jetty eyes glittering.

“I-I’ll die in there!” Deaton yelped. 

“For one so eager to claim power, you seem to lack faith in what it can accomplish,” the fox said, and Stiles might have been imagining a touch of humor. Three of the fox’s great tails claimed Deaton then, wrapping him up in coal-black fur until he disappeared. 

When the fox drew himself back, the space that had contained Alan Deaton, veterinarian of Beacon Hills, held only a firefly. Without hesitation, Peter reached out and captured it in the jar. He sealed the lid with unhurried calm then put it back near the nemeton’s roots. The ground silently opened and swallowed the jar, leaving no trace behind. 

“Thank you,” Kristoffer said to the fox. 

“Yes, yes,” the fox replied, its unblinking eyes fixed again on Stiles. 

“Vengeance, was it?” Peter prodded. “Surely not to be found in this grove.” 

The fox made a small, displeased hiss, but turned and bounded away, its dark shape carving a clean break in the circle of fire as it departed. 

“You should be more careful in future, little witch,” Peter said once the fox was gone. 

“Okay, my name’s not _little witch_,” Stiles pointed out. “And I’m not a witch. Well, I don’t think I’m a witch. What’s a spark, anyway? That’s what Deaton kept calling me.” 

“How should we address you?” Kristoffer asked, carefully removing the rope from Stiles’ body. 

“Most people call me Stiles.”

“An odd appellation,” Peter murmured. “Still, if you prefer it, little witch, Stiles you shall be.”

“Gosh, thanks,” Stiles replied, stretching his sore muscles before accepting the cloth Peter produced from thin air and gingerly dabbing at myriad cuts. 

“A spark is a magic user whose power is internal and intrinsic. Sparks in my day were trained from birth to protect themselves and their people,” Kristoffer explained. “Although they were rare even then. I have not seen a spark in our realm for…a very long time.”

“Huh.” Stiles’ mind was already moving ahead to how he could explore this new and unexpected world of magic he was part of. What else could be real? Dragons? Goblins? _Werewolves? _

“You could ride with us,” Peter offered abruptly. “We are welcome always with Woden’s company. A spark…you would learn much.” 

“Thanks…that sounds—” Stiles’ brow furrowed and he shook his head to clear it. “What I meant to say was that I appreciate your help, but I have a life here and I’m only seventeen and I can’t leave right now. But thank you. For…everything.” 

Part of him really, really wanted to, though. He couldn’t begin to imagine how amazing it would be to interact with mythical creatures and learn how to use his magic—_his magic_…just the thought gave him goosebumps. But as little as Stiles wanted to non-magically finish up his last year of high school and fake normalcy, he wanted even less to leave his father behind. Not to mention Scott. Who was probably unemployed now. 

“Hmm,” Peter replied, face speculative. 

“You have time to give us an answer,” Kristoffer said, sitting next to Stiles on top of the nemeton and placing a startlingly warm hand on his knee. 

“We can be _very_ patient,” Peter added, lounging on Stiles’ other side. 

Stiles took a moment to be inappropriately attracted to the fact that both men, ghostly or not, were clearly warriors—all hard, lean muscle and predatory movements. And they were looking at him with expressions of admiration, curiosity, and…interest of some kind. 

_You’re a teenager who’s just been through a traumatic experience; it’s totally normal to feel this way_, Stiles told himself firmly. Peter’s widening smile suggested Stiles’ face was easy to read. 

“Think on it,” said Kristoffer with one last squeeze of Stiles’ knee. He rose to his feet and Peter, reluctance obvious, joined him. 

“Samhain next we will be here for the firefly,” Peter said, keen blue gaze fixed on Stiles. 

“Got it,” Stiles breathed, then cleared his throat. “Yeah, okay. N-next Hallowe’en. Back here by the magic tree stump. It’s a—a place you’ll both be.” 

“Dawn comes,” Kristoffer said, face tilted to the east. 

“One year hence.” Peter’s eyes gleamed as a pale mist rose around the grove. 

Stiles sat on the nemeton, body cold where Peter and Kristoffer’s warmth had been, and watched as a blue-hued glow surrounded them once again. Gradually, the light intensified, until it obscured the two men’s forms then swallowed them. 

Stiles blinked hard when the light faded, finding he was alone with the remains of the great tree. 

“Well.” Stiles scrubbed his hands over his face. “That was super weird—”

He broke off, peering down at the rough surface of the tree trunk in disbelief. All around his body, tiny green stems and leaves were sprouting. Stiles felt a pressure building inside his head and he mentally flailed a bit before forcing himself to breathe deeply and relax. There was a tentative push, and then he felt a _welcome_ from the…the nemeton. 

“Hello,” Stiles said out loud. Every tendril burst into bloom, with blood-red flowers crowning each stem. They nodded back at him and Stiles gave a shaky laugh. Slowly, he began to feel the weight of the forest around him. The deer leaping over bracken, the rabbits burrowing in their holes, the owls swooping from branch to branch. 

From somewhere impossibly distant, he sensed laughter and a promise. 

_Samhain next, little witch. _


End file.
